


Certainty

by beccabuchanans (vestigialwords)



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: F/M, Hair Pulling, Semi-Clothed Sex, Unprotected Sex, light choking (no breathplay), reader is a mother just in case that's a squick for you, soft!domme reader, submissive frankie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27335506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans
Summary: Sometimes Frankie loses his way and needs some help to find it again.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Certainty

There’s a chill in the empty air as you jolt awake, blinking as your eyes adjust to the inky black of your bedroom. The shifting sheets as you stir seem to echo in the muted night—no shallow huffing snuffle of your husband in the dark to offset the quiet rustling. No kicking fidgets of restless feet, cold sweats, or anxious whimpers triggered by the horrors, real or imagined, flashing through his mind that can explain the way you bolted awake. Just—silence. 

Your arm sweeps across Frankie’s half of the bed. Cold. Neat. Pressed. You roll over and fumble for the phone charging on your nightstand and wince when the bright light of the screen burns your eyes. Well past midnight. No messages. Even if he had gone out for drinks with the boys after the fight, he should be home by now. 

You climb out of bed and tiptoe past the door to your daughter’s room. She’s become a light sleeper in recent months, just like her father. Slow to sleep and quick to wake, the rest she does get is fitful. She takes after him like that, and in other ways too. Her soulful eyes shine black like the night sky, brimming with improbable wisdom that studies you throughout the day. She examines you, mimics you, follows in your wake and fashions the pieces of your world into a wondrous universe of her own. But right now, you’re looking for your missing husband, not the squirming child who is becoming more and more like him with each passing day.

You find him sunk deep into the corner of your couch as though he’d been there for hours, his long legs lounging along the chaise, his cap discarded at his feet. Blueprints and glossy photographs spill out of a crisp manila folder propped up in his lap. He looks up at you and a warm smile spreads across his face. You stand in the doorway in your underwear and an old oversized tee-shirt, threadbare and just barely skimming the bottom of your ass. It’s nothing special, but he looks at you like you’re the moon in his sky.

“How’d Benny do?” you ask as you pad across the soft carpet on bare feet. He holds an arm outstretched for you to climb under, and you curl into the space next to him as though the lines of his body had been perfectly molded for you. 

Frankie snorts. “Got his ass handed to him.”

“Out-classed?”

“Big time.” 

You hum and nestle into his chest, draw a deep inhale. The cologne he put on this morning has mostly faded, now just the faintest lingering note of mahogany twisted into a warm masculine musk that smells like home. He shuffles through some of the papers in his lap—a dry report that you skim before deciding you don’t care, blueprints for what looks like a fortress, and a map or two. 

“What’s that?”

“Mission brief. That job Pope texted about.” 

You sigh. Santiago’s text had fallen from the sky two days ago, the soft chime of Frankie’s cell phone heralding the return of his brother in all but blood. 

“And your license? That’s not going to be a problem?”

“Pope pulled some strings, I guess,” Frankie shrugs. 

“You _guess_?” It sounds like bullshit, like much of what comes out of Pope’s mouth. It’s not that you don’t love the man, but he knows exactly how to pull Frankie’s strings and he doesn’t always use his influence for good. A healthy person doesn’t just drop off the face of the earth for eighteen months and expect life to resume as if nothing happened. 

“I don’t know, honey, but it’s seventeen thousand for a fucking recce. I didn’t ask too many questions.” He looks up at you. “That’s a new roof for the house. We could pay off the car. Get a head start on the little one’s college fund.” 

“We can get by without it, Frankie.” 

“You won’t have to put in any more overtime.”

You sigh. He isn’t wrong; the extra hours take a toll. 

What’s worse, is that buried deep in his eyes you spy a renewed spark of life. Pope’s text had reignited the fuse of some long embering passion. You knew this day was coming; a piece of him never truly left the army behind. Somewhere between boot camp and losing track of his tours of duty, you lost a piece of your husband in the firefight. His body came home, but a dark piece of his mind yearns for danger. Maybe he doesn’t enjoy it– _maybe_ –but he needs it anyway. He’s addicted to the adrenaline rush he gets soaring through the sky. Vibrates out of his skin when he can’t have it. 

There’s a certain itch that pilots get when they’ve been grounded too long, had their feet on solid earth long enough to grow roots. They yearn for the thrill of open air. Frankie is steady, reliable, but he is not still. Your husband lives with a droning buzz beneath his skin that compels him to the heavens. 

You know the man you married, and you wouldn’t change him for the world. 

“You want this, don’t you?”

His hands shake as he shuffles through the pages.

“I don’t know.” 

You look into his eyes, plumb the deep wells of desperation you find there. When he’s in the cockpit, he’s king. His steady hands curl around the controls, his sharp mind quickly calculates the weight of his brothers’ lives. But his faith has been shaken–he gets like this sometimes. He forgets who he is without orders; can’t force his mind to walk a single path as the mounting weight of the options before him tumble and cascade together, jumbled up in an impossible tangle. These are the times when he needs you to take his agency from him, tell him what to do, where to go, and how. Give him the thrill of relief when you make the tough call he couldn’t. 

Your decisions may or may not stick to the wall, but if it’s wrong, he’ll know. He has good instincts, knows what to do, even when he doesn’t believe himself.

You sigh, dropping your head to your chest for a moment, take a deep breath. Then you slide your hand to the back of his neck, and fist one of your hands into his hair, wrench his head to the side to look at you. When you speak, your voice cracks out of your mouth like a whip, sure and strong. 

“Let me tell you how this is going to go.”

You close the folder in his lap and drop it onto the floor next to you. He scoffs in protest and flounders for a moment, ripped from his thoughts until he sees the look on your face—hard and serious. He stills. You throw a leg over him to straddle his lap. His jaw drops. You lean forward, almost menacing.

“Are you listening to me?” 

He whines beneath you, a helpless affirmative, slouching into the pillowing cushions. You sweep your hands down the broad planes of his chest, over the softness of his belly to his belt, flipping the worn leather out of the buckle. You grind back against the growing bulge beneath you. He’s already half-hard, the unspoken promise of your heat flickering in the ashes of every word falling from your mouth. He rumbles, molten and pliable under your hands. He nods, and you let a soft smile spread across your face. 

“You’re going to go with the boys to South America,” you say, fixing him with a hard stare as the worn leather hisses through his belt loops. You lean forward and nip at his jaw, clacking your teeth with the force of it. He jerks beneath you, his head dropping back against the cushions. You discard his belt on the floor and flick open the button of his jeans. He presses his hips upward toward you just enough to let you slip his pants and underwear down to free his cock. You reach back up to cradle his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “You’re going to confiscate a lot of money from a very bad man. Then you are going to fly your brothers’ helpless asses out of dodge.

“And then, most important—listen to me…” You lean forward and shift in his lap until you’re towering over him. One hand slides down along the scruff to scoop under his chin, and you _tighten_ your grip into a vice. Your thumb digs into one of his cheeks, fingertips into the other. You force his face back up to meet your gaze. His eyes are glazed over, shimmering black pools as he stares up at you in wonder. Your voice is tempered steel and his eyes drop to watch your lips as the razor sharp sting drops from them. “ _Listen_ — _You. Come. Home. Safe_.” 

It’s not a request. It’s not a plea.

It’s an order. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

His voice rasps, thick with tar and gravel as he gapes up at you with wide pleading eyes, boyish innocence and relief washing across his face. The sound that escapes your throat can only be described as a _purr_ as you relax your grip and tug gently at the loose curls behind his ears. 

“Good boy.”

You straighten, just enough to kick your underwear off before lining him up with your entrance. He keens beneath you, tossing his head back, a plaintive groan crunching from his chest. Your hands flow down the curving line of his throat, running your hands over the straining cords of muscle bulging in his neck, and take note of the catch of breath he hisses when your hands catch on his Adam’s apple. It’s all you can do to keep yourself from sinking your teeth into the flesh of his collarbone. 

“Do you want this?” 

Your voice flows deep and rich like velvet, a tone reserved for times like this, moments where you take it upon yourself to control the decadent flow of cozy intimacy with the man you love. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

You sink down on him slowly, wiggling your hips from side to side as you lower yourself onto him. He turns to hide his face in the cushions as a heavy whine creaks out of his chest. The first few moments that Frankie seats inside you are always overwhelming, the stretch of him tight and impossible as though he’s going to rip you apart. Your head falls back as you adjust to the press of him at the straining bright seams of your body. Hot shocks of light zip along the spidering web of your nerves as he becomes another part of you, as though he belongs there, and nowhere else. He stretches you wide open, a gentle welcome pressure burrowing deep and fundamental as he surrenders his body to yours. 

Your hands land over his shoulders as you press him into the worn sinking cushions. Warm syrupy pools of thick pleasure churn in your belly as you rise off him, slow and indulgent, savoring the ridges and veins of him until he nearly falls out. At the last minute, you drop back down on him quickly, slamming him sharp into your tight heat. He cries out, almost like you’ve hurt him. 

You haven’t. Far from it. 

It’s intoxicating, how he throws his head back and keens under you. Frankie is impossibly strong, in every way you can imagine. He has the tenacity of a soldier—that never ending drive forward, _forward_. He battles his demons every day, the horrors he’s seen, enacted, created, both on others and himself. But in the past year he’s developed a new kind of strength, buried under a thin layer of newfound softness that dulls his harsh edges. It’s a fortitude born from the protective instincts of a man who has spent the last six months with a baby cradled in his arms, the tireless strength of a doting father. 

He surrenders it all.

You clench around him as you rock back, a swing of your hips around, thrusting yourself down on him as far as you can until you feel him hitting something deep and bright inside you. You chase the feeling—drop, slam, swing—again and again, a tight pressure building, billowing, burbling up inside your belly. 

He thrashes beneath you, a gentle cry cracking from his throat as his lips move around bared white teeth. Under the rasp of your own heavy breath that tumbles into the quiet living room, you realize he’s speaking—hushed whispers, a fevered litany of pleas and prayers and rapturous exaltations to the heavens. His words, his mindless rambles, reflect off of you and back down through him, ricocheting between you until you shine as bright as the moon in the sky. He takes solace in your light, your guidance, finds a gentle mindless peace inside the glowing heat of you.

Your hands splay out wide across his chest, pushing, pressing him into the soft couch as you ride him. He’s stunning, breathtaking spread out beneath you like a sacrifice to the gods, to you. The pressure in your belly crunches high and sharp, and you cry out, pace faltering. His head whips forward to watch. He knows what that means, eyes wide and wondrous as you shake and shudder apart all over him, your release exquisite in its devastation. 

His fingers wrap around your wrist as he moves the hand at his shoulder just slightly lower until the vee of your thumb and index fingers are nestled snug beneath his Adam’s apple. He keens beneath you, his hair flopping against the couch cushions as he throws his head back again. 

“Please, honey,” he whines, his face twisting in anguished pleasure, “ _please_.”

He nearly bucks you off the couch as he arches back, and your fingers flex almost without thinking, a gentle pressure against the base of his neck. He sobs, and you press back, an experimental squeeze at the delicate line of his throat. His fingers dig into the soft flesh above your hips and he thrashes beneath you. 

He’s sweet as he burns, eyes wide and pleading as he prays, beseeches, begs. You smile down at him, curling your other hand around his cheek, letting the scruff of his stubble scratch beautifully against the palm of your hand. You cradle his face as you smile, warm, gentle as you rock against him. You feel him throb inside you, harder than ever and so, so desperately close. 

“Let go, baby,” you coo down at him. 

And then he’s gone, vacated, his back bowing with the force of it. Every muscle in his body seizes, rigid and violent, and you have to scramble to catch the armrest next to you to stay seated on him, to keep from flopping down to the floor. He wails as he bursts inside you, thick warmth flooding your core as he quakes, and shakes, and shudders. 

You flop down on the couch next to him when he stills, cuddling up next to him on the narrow cushion. He exhales, shaky and trembling, and you run a comforting hand over his chest, drawing mindless pictures in the soft fabric of his tee-shirt. 

“So what are you going to do?”

He chuckles, soft and gentle, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing you tight to his chest. 

“I’m going to go to South America. I’m going to steal money from a bad man. I’m going to fly those assholes to safety. I’m going to come home. And then I’m going to eat you out for a week.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [HERE](https://mandoplease.tumblr.com/post/633092215270440960/pairing-frankie-moralesfemale-reader-words) on my tumblr.


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